


When The Wheels Touch Ground

by luninosity



Category: X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movies), X-Men - All Media Types, X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Bittersweet, Complicated Lives, Erik Dealing With The Media, Hopeful Ending, Life Partners, Love, M/M, future!fic, grumpy!Erik
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-16
Updated: 2012-11-16
Packaged: 2017-11-18 19:59:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/564707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Birthday fic for alernun, who requested surly!Erik dealing with reporters; basically, future!fic in which Erik and Charles will always have each other, even if imperfectly so; bittersweet but hopeful moments; always love.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When The Wheels Touch Ground

**Author's Note:**

> Title from the Foo Fighters, as always; this time, “Wheels”.

Erik is holding a press conference. He doesn’t like them.

To be fair, he doesn’t like many things, or many people. Including himself, most days.

The Genoshan sunlight is very bright, in his eyes. It bounces off the helmet. Reflects merciless rays into the faces of all the journalists. Good.

“No,” he says, for the fifth time in as many minutes. “I did not bomb the school in Manhattan. I am not responsible for that act.” Do they honestly think he’d murder children? Even human children?

“What about the rumors that Charles Xavier’s X-Men were at the scene? If they weren’t fighting your Brotherhood, who was it?”

“Pick an enemy!” Erik snaps. The list is quite long, after all. Rogue Sentinels. Stryker. Alien duplicate imposters. Brainwashed versions of themselves.

But his phrasing is unfortunate, probably because he’s utterly annoyed, and the same reporter jumps on the word. “Enemy? Do you consider yourself and the professor enemies, then?”

“I have the utmost respect for Charles Xavier,” Erik snarls. The professor, indeed. How impersonal. She’s obviously never met Charles. Charles isn’t anyone’s enemy. Not even Erik’s. Not even now.

The woman, unfortunately, is either stupid or reckless or both, and doesn’t pick up on the warning signs, the thunderclouds on the horizon. “What about the rumors that the two of you were once colleagues? I’ve heard you were quite close, at one time.”

“I have heard that as well.” The words come out evenly. Calmly. The woman’s chrome-plated pen, very slowly, bends itself in half.

She steps back, but someone else yells, from the crowd, “Is that confirmation?” and Erik says “Of what?” and then waves at a third person, at random, hoping for reprieve.

“Can we change the subject?”

Please, Erik thinks. “Perhaps?”

“What about the rumors that you’re seeking a consort to help you govern Genosha? Our readers would love to know if we can expect any major political upheavals in the coming months as a result.”

“Am I _what?_ ” Every single microphone rattles, ominously. Erik curses at himself. He’s worked hard to have flawless control. All his life, in fact.

He’s only ever had real control, his best and most fine-tuned control, with help. With specific, stubborn, well-meaning, blue-eyed help.

Maybe Charles won’t be listening in on this particular press conference. Erik wouldn’t want to place money, given those odds, however.

“Where did you hear that?”

“Um…we got an anonymous phone call? From a woman who said she worked for you? She wouldn’t give her name. Said she enjoyed being a mystery.”

He’s going to kill Mystique. Not really, of course. For one thing, Charles would hate him. For another, he’d miss her. And for a third, she probably believes she’s helping them in some way. But he is going to seek vengeance somehow. And he’s very good at those sorts of plans.

He spends a happy few seconds considering one or two tempting ideas, and then has to set them aside when someone else says, “Does that mean it’s not true?”

“It’s not—no, of course it’s not true, I already—”

“You already what? Have someone?”

“This isn’t exactly any of your business!”

“It is when it affects the lives of the people of Genosha!”

She’s got a point. Irritatingly so.

“I can assure you that I am making the decisions I see fit—”

“Like attacking civilian targets?”

“Yes, can you tell us—”

“I did _not_ blow up the damned school!” Erik shouts, and in the wake of his anger several cufflinks pop open and pens spin into the air and coins swirl into a viciously shimmering tornado above them.

The reporters, collectively, stare.

“Excuse me for a moment,” he says, desperately, and retreats with as much dignity as he can manage. The cape helps. It always does. That’s why he likes it.

He plucks off the helmet, with a thought. Leans against the wall, out of sight.

It takes Charles all of two seconds to reach over and soothe the incipient headache back into nonexistence. _I quite like your cape as well. Very theatrical._

_You do appreciate a good show. I take it you found out who was behind the incident?_

_Yes, I do, as you very well know, and yes…_ Charles sighs, in his head. _It wasn’t mutant-related. Not at all. Religious protest. Entirely human, though one can barely apply the word to a man who’d attempt to blow up a school full of children…_

Erik could argue with him, then. Could say: that’s what humans are. We both know what they do. And Charles would answer: have we done any better for ourselves? And shouldn’t we try?

He doesn’t make the argument. Neither does Charles. Too familiar, that ground. They’re too old for that now. Neither of them ever wins.

Neither of them ever grows weary of trying. That’d mean that they were weary of each other. And _that_ will never, not ever, not in this lifetime or any other, occur.

_In any case, you can go and tell the media, if they need convincing._ And that’s familiar, too. Charles never believed he’d done it. Charles believes in him. Always has.

_And always will._

_Where are you?_

_The jet. Nearly home. Oh—home, in fact._

_Let everyone else get off the plane first._

_Erik, really, now?_

_Yes._

_Fine_. And the brightness at the back of his mind gets briefly distracted, as Charles talks the others into disembarking, more or less with words alone.

Erik grins. Doesn’t bother to put back on the helmet. Walks back out onto the balcony, into the light.

“No, I am not choosing a consort. Or looking for one. Or anything of that nature.”

_Consort?_ Charles says, in his head. _I rather like the sound of that._

_Charles, shut up and hold on._

“But—”

“Because I already have one.” That silences them all, momentarily. “And he’s a better man than I am. The best person I’ve ever known.”

_Erik, I—_

_No protesting. You know it’s true._

_It isn’t._

_If you argue you’ll distract me, and this plane is fairly heavy, Charles._

_Still not true_ , Charles mutters, but the words subside into quiet grumbles, Charles being almost sure that Erik’s lying about the effort and the weight but not wanting to disturb him just in case.

He smiles again. At the reporters. Shows off all his teeth. “Any questions?”

Predictably, “Who is it?” pops up first, followed closely by “Since when?”

“Since always,” Erik says. _Always_. And he feels Charles smile, the tart-sweet-warm sensations of sugared tea and leatherbound books and pineapple and sunlight, through his thoughts.

“But he’s not here now? With you?” Trust that ridiculously persistent woman to find her way to the front again.

“Oh, he is. Not physically, perhaps. But he has his own life’s work.”

“Isn’t that complicated for the two of you?”

“Are you going to tell us who it is?”

“Is it difficult to be both a mutant and in a long-term homosexual relationship?”

“Not in order…yes, I am, sometimes it is, and what kind of question is that? Is it difficult for you to face your own tendencies in that direction, perhaps?” This last courtesy of Charles conveniently murmuring certain facts into his skull, and not being at all ashamed of this technical abuse of his powers.

_You’re a terrible influence on me, I’m afraid._

_You enjoy it._ True, and Charles mentally shrugs in agreement. _You do know_ , Erik says, very privately, _that that goes the other way, as well._

_So you’re saying we might still meet in the middle, someday?_

_I’m saying…I could see that happening, yes. Can’t you?_

_Despite all the complications?_

_Yes._

_Yes, I can. Someday._

“So who—”

“Charles Xavier,” Erik tells them, cheerfully, and then, because the jet’s flying toward him out of the sky, dropping to the roof, coming home, “and I am officially done speaking to you all, I have certain plans—and not for the destruction of anything, and by the way that was a human extremist group, do your research next time—to attend to,” and then doesn’t run out the door.

Not quite. Not entirely, anyway. He has his dignity, and his cape, to consider.

He runs a few moments later, once he’s out of the reach of all those eyes.

Behind him, the reporters are babbling and squabbling among themselves, trying to decide whether he means what he’s just said, or if he’s toying with them, or if he’s trying to make Charles look foolish somehow. Some of them will believe him, and some won’t, and some will run the story anyway and some won’t, and Erik doesn’t give a damn what any of them do, not now.

He can see Charles smiling at him from the window, and he can hear that _yes_ all through his body, echoing as brightly as the sunshine, as glittering as the metal skin of the plane, sleek wings and cool lines that beckon him unerringly closer. And when Charles kisses him Erik thinks _I love you_ , and Charles whispers _yes_ again, and _I love you, Erik_ , and _I know_.


End file.
